Scars that Never Quite Fade
by arieslily17
Summary: Rated mostly for language an a slight implication. Harry needs to wake up and who else is better for the job than the one person who always sticks by him and takes care of him?


Arieslily17: A new story? Who'd have thought it?

Nix: Well, you haven't written in so long, how could we even imagine?

Arieslily: I happen to have had a serious moment of inspiration for this story. I wrote it in the exact spot where JK Rowling wrote the majority of HP and the Philosopher's Stone.

Nix: Woah.

Arieslily: I know. So, let's hope it lives up! You know the drill: Read and Review! It's like cheap, cheap Prozac! Story dedicated to the memory of Edinburgh, my Hansard people, the Elephant House, (for putting up with me sitting in a very important place for hours, writing, and eing kind enough to refill my lattes.) and JK Rowling, of course. Hopefully I got it right this time. : p

**Scars that Never Quite Fade**

****

'Sometimes,' Harry thought, 'Sometimes I'd just like it to be over.'

He sighed, bringing his hands up and running them through his hair. 'Just sometimes, I wish all the fighting, the killing, the dying…would be over. Sometimes, all I want is silence and peace. How many people have died for this cause? I've lost count, seeing the lists growing every day in the Daily Prophet. How many of them did I know and/or love? More than should ever have been on those lists.'

Dropping his hands, the young man flopped backwards onto the bed on which he was seated, in the small room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, where he had locked himself up for what had to be the last week and a half. The Order had brought him here through his violent protests, after discovering that he had become listless, silent and compliant to the Dursleys, dead to the world around him. His violent reaction to their removal of him from the horrible people that qualified as his family was unexpected though welcome. After thinking about it for a while, he imagined, they had realized his objections stemmed from a desire to be as removed from anything that would remind him of his former Godfather as possible, and not from any great wish to remain where he was. And they were glad that he had showed some sign of still being alive and not the walking dead. So when he struck out at them, they paid it no mind. Choosing instead to comfort himself with silence, he once again locked himself in one of the upstairs rooms, not usually allowing anyone in or out.

Out of respect for Harry and his wishes, or so he assumed, no one had apparated in, tried unlocking the door with a spell, or just broken the door down. In return, Harry had allowed Ron and Hermione to come into the room once the day before. Or was it a few days ago? Harry could no longer remember. The curtains were drawn and the only source of light in the room came from a few, seemingly ancient, candles of various heights strung together through run-off wax from years of use, on a desk on the other side of the room. He didn't really know what day it was.

When his two friends had entered, Harry had been in the same position he was in now. In fact, it was the same position from which he had rarely moved since coming in here. He had been vaguely responsive to abate their worries, but was, in no way, his usual self. Of course, he had felt bad for this. Or thought he felt bad. Harry knew he should feel bad, but he didn't really feel much of anything anymore, come to think of it. Anything but pain, loss, and guilt really.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew how ridiculous he was acting. He had lost people before, and sadly would again. The only reason this was any different was because it was Sirius. He could pretend, for a time, that it hadn't actually happened. Or that he would at least see Sirius again in ghostly, or other, form. But after speaking with Nearly Headless Nick and being sent away from the only place that had ever felt like home, with the fate of the world placed firmly on his shoulders…it was a bit much to take in, at any rate.

In the back of his mind, Harry had always known that it would eventually come down to him and Voldemort. That made the most sense considering how determined the Dark Lord was to kill him and Harry's unrelenting refusal to actually die, but Harry had thought he would have help when he finally made it to that point. Being "The one" who "has a power the dark lord knows not" and "either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives," just made it so much more finite. To know that he was alone in it was a heavy burden to bear. Add onto that the knowledge that his Godfather was dead, the closest thing he had had to actual family at that point, ripped from him by that very evil Harry had been born to fight, and the fact that had he not rushed in to save the day yet again, this all might have been averted, Harry concluded that he had had a very bad year and was entitled to a little peace and quiet, some time to fully process everything that had happened, and perhaps eventually come to terms with it.

"Hah," Harry laughed aloud, thinking, 'As if I will ever really be fine with this.' Harry couldn't even understand why he'd locked himself in here, as he glanced up at the dark ceiling.

He hadn't wanted to come to this place. Everything reminded him of happier times with the people he loved like family. And for that he would not forgive himself. He had no right to remember anything happy, not when everyone, including himself, was suffering. At least at the Dursleys' house though, he would have been farther away from the memories that haunted and teased him so. Here, Sirius' life could still be felt in almost ever nook and cranny. It was a horrible torment, to live and breathe in everything that had been Sirius, realizing that essence would slowly fade.

Thanks to Harry.

And the guilty crashed over him again, engulfing him in horrible, depressing feelings. So, Harry did the only thing he could do in these moments…He gave himself over to oblivion, and passed out…

* * *

Sometime later, Harry stirred. It felt like his voice of reason, the little niggling voice in the back of his mind that sounded so much like Hermione, was beating on him with a very large, heavy, and spiky stick. Onslaughts of how preposterous and absurd he was acting, anger at how he was making himself sick and scaring all his friends, it was all so sudden and painful that he couldn't take it. How could a dream be this real?

"Harry? Harry, are you listening? Get up Harry, you have some explaining to do!"

"What?" He mumbled, trying to shake away the dream, "Why are you yelling at me dream? What did I ever do to you? What did I ever do to anyone for that matter? Just let me sleep in peace, that's all I want," with this, he attempted to roll over and welcome the blackness. But then something reached out and stopped him.

"Oh, Harry," the voice sighed, "Open your eyes, I'm no dream," and he felt a tugging on the front of his shirt.

"I'd rather keep sleeping thanks," Harry replied. This just couldn't be real, no one came into his room…he had to be hallucinating. Better to just pass out again, there weren't as many dreams then. So he flattened out on his back and started to slip into the inky abyss.

That is, until he was slapped in the face.

Sputtering, Harry sat straight up, his head coming into contact with another body. Shaking his head, he pulled his glasses onto his face, opened his eyes, and there sat Hermione looming over him, a menacing look on her face.

"What in the bloody hell did you do that for Hermione!" Harry yelled, quite angry at being broken from his solace by an unwanted visitor.

"You were going back to sleep! Again! Which is all you ever do anymore! And I am sick and tired of it," she replied, glowering at him.

Harry rubbed his face where it continued to sting. "Still, was it absolutely necessary to slap me?"

"Apparently so," she said wryly, a calculating look in her eye as she surveyed her best friend. She was perched on the edge of his bed, her arms crossed over her chest, and, Harry noticed, she didn't look happy.

"Well I don't think it was necessary. Do you go around slapping all of your friends just to get their attention, or am I special?" He said, quickly becoming annoyed with his intruder. "Why are you in here anyway? No one comes in here," Harry questioned her, wanting her to get on with why she came in here, so he could go back to sleep.

"As always Harry, you are the special exception to the rule. Greater crimes have gone unpunished and lesser people. So, to put it simply, I'm here to get you out." She shifted slightly, and leaned forward a bit, presumably to assert her dominance in the situation.

'If she thinks I'm walking out of here just because she says so, she's got another thing coming,' Harry thought, gazing up at her. Still, this was Hermione, she was much smarter than that, she had to have a plan. Out of sheer curiosity, he asked, "And just how do you believe you're going to do that?"

"Whatever it takes. I'm not going to be dramatic, and say I won't leave the room until you come out with me. I won't nag you to death until you come out. But I'm going to figure out what will get you to leave, and then I'll do it. I'll come in here everyday and stay with you, until I figure out what will make you comfortable enough to leave. Because you're being ridiculous and wasting your life away in this pit. I won't let that happen." Hermione declared resolutely.

Harry sat staring incredulously at Hermione. She was either the bravest and most outrageous girl he had ever known, or the most insane. He couldn't decide which at this point. Shaking his head a little, he once again flopped back down onto this back. Gazing up at her, he said, "Hermione, you're not going to be able to just make me happy, no matter what you do. I'm not meant to be happy."

"I didn't say I came in here to make you happy. I said I came in here to get you out. There's a difference. Harry, there are people who love you outside of this room, who need you as much as you need them right now, whether you realize it or not. And, while you of all people should be entitled to a little selfishness every once in a while, I really don't think that sitting up here in a dark room, practically killing yourself, shut off from human contact is going to do you any good or help you feel better in the long run. Now then, what shall we do? We have a few hours until I'm meant to be downstairs for dinner. We can play Exploding Snap, or regular cards," Hermione began ticking things off on her fingers, and, Harry noticed, pulled a large bag stuffed with all sorts of things up off the floor. "We could also do homework. I've had the foresight to realize you've probably not done any. Or, we can just talk. Your choice. But you're not going back to sleep." She looked at Harry expectantly.

He said nothing. He wasn't about to encourage her. There had to be laws about this sort of thing. Where was it stated that best friends couldn't force each other to do something against their wills? It had to be in a book somewhere, and of course, Hermione would know that, but he wasn't going to ask her that either. She might take it as an invitation to start one of her projects. So he said nothing, but lied there on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Okay, I'll take that as you saying you want to talk," Hermione nudged him to move over, and more out of shock than anything else, he did.

Apparently, silence and lack of motion implied a deep burning desire to have a heart to heart talk.

Hermione, even more to his surprise, had not nudged him to get more comfortable in the position she already held. No, she had decided to turn around and lay down beside him. A stray lock of her not-so-bushy-anymore, though still large enough to recognizably be Hermione, curly brown hair landed on his face, just under his nose. As he realized her head must be fairly close to his own, he tried to blow the hair away. It didn't work. But it was tickling his nose.

'Not really in a bad way,' he supposed, as the scent of her hair drifted up through his nostrils. 'What is that? Some sort of flower? How is it that girls can always make their hair smell so nice? I'll have to ask Hermione…' However, he would sneeze if it stayed where it was, so it had to be removed. He brought his right hand up, since his left was too close to Hermione's body to move it without disturbing them both, and plucked up the curl. It decided to curl around his index finger, and for a moment, Harry was mesmerized.

'It's so soft,' he thought, marvelling at Hermione's tiny curl of hair wrapped around his considerably larger finger. He tried to shake it off, closer to the mass of hair that was next to his head, but it didn't want to let go. And suddenly, Harry didn't want to let it go. So he rested his hand near his shoulder, rubbing the curl absentmindedly between his thumb and forefinger, waiting for Hermione to start speaking.

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Hermione spoke up, saying, "I really don't see what you find so fascinating about this ceiling Harry. You'll have to tell me sometime," she mumbled, so faintly he could barely hear. Louder, she said, "So Harry, tell me about your childhood."

Harry turned his face towards hers, a questioning look adorning it. "You're not going all Freud on me now are you, 'Mione?" He asked.

She turned her face up towards his, answering "no, I just thought it would get the ball rolling. We have to talk about something."

"And you think MY childhood is the place to start?" He noticed distractedly that she hadn't protested the use of this shortening of her name. So, either she didn't mind it as much as she loathed Hermy, or she hadn't noticed. But again, this was Hermione, of course she would have noticed. So was it, in fact…but no, could she have actually… liked…the nickname? He resolved to test the waters further, and change the topic of discussion while he was at it.

"Why not?" She replied.

"Well, you know the majority of my life story already. In fact, why don't YOU tell me about YOUR childhood?"

"Not much to tell. You know what I was like First Year. Childhood wasn't pleasant. I was a quiet, shy, bookworm. The kids who I thought were my friends freaked out the first time I did accidental magic. A bully had been picking on us, and I just got so frustrated when she rounded on me, that I actually made her hair stand on end, and she floated a couple of feet off the ground. I hear it was somewhat like what happened to your Aunt Marge when you blew her up. Afterwards, no one spoke to me. I was already scared, having no idea that it was completely natural for me to do, since I'm magical, because at the time, I never believed magic really existed. Things like that started happening more and more often as time went on, and I was totally ostracised by the other kids. And then I got my Hogwarts letter, and it all fell into place. My parents couldn't deny what I am, they'd seen it too many times, and viewed it not only as a way to hone my natural abilities, but as a way for me to get a new start with people who would accept me for who I am. So determined was I to ensure that things wouldn't go the same way they had before, I read everything I could get my hands on about the wizarding world. I wanted to be ready when I met all the other children who had grown up with it their whole lives. Thus the brainy, know-it-all, 11-year-old you saved from a troll and got saddled with for life." As she finished, she tore her eyes from his and settled her head back down flat on the pillow, her eyes toward the ceiling. She had said all this quietly, and he could tell she had been trying hard, but failing miserably, to hide the pain in her voice.

So it turned out that the great Hermione Granger had had about as good a childhood as he had, with a few exceptions. Harry never would have realized that, had she not just told him to his face. He settled his own head back down, and tried to think of a comforting reply…any reply that would make sense after what she had just admitted. Hermione shifted, presumably uncomfortably, and Harry felt his left hand brush her right hand just slightly between their bodies. Overcome with a desire to express his sympathy and understanding, he hesitantly slipped his hand around hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back, and he knew at once that she had comprehended his action. Finally, words came to his lips, as he croaked out, "I'd hardly say I was 'saddled' with you 'Mione. If anything, it's the other way around. Besides, despite what you may believe or remember of those first few weeks of First Year, I never disliked you. Got frustrated a bit, yeah, but only because you knew everything I didn't. And even if I didn't have a 'saving people thing', even if there had been no troll, I think I probably would have eventually gone into that toilet after you, because I couldn't understand how everyone just left you there. I knew you had to be hurt after hearing what the others had said, and I couldn't fathom how they didn't have a need to make sure you were okay. I mean, I'd been there…left alone when you needed people most. And you didn't deserve that…you weren't as terrible to be around as everyone was saying," he finished, lamely.

"Thanks…I think. But I'm glad you would have still come after me, and that at least you didn't think I was horrid. I appreciate that. Certainly makes a difference about how I remember everything that happened back then."

"I thought it might," Harry said, feeling a bit better about speaking up, and continued without thinking. "And I couldn't believe Ron even considered just going off and leaving you to the troll."

He felt, more than heard, Hermione's sharp intake of breath. 'Oh bloody hell,' he thought, 'I'd forgotten they fancied each other.'

"Hmm, well, Ron is a right prat, isn't he? I suppose it's not so surprising, I mean he loathed me, didn't he?" She mumbled.

"Not that he still does or anything! I mean, I'm sure now he'd be one of the first to run after you! He…you're his, er, best friend, well apart from me, and he er…thinks the world of you, I'm sure-" Harry rambled, trying not to say anything Ron wouldn't want him to, but still make him sound like a decent guy. 'Oi, it's difficult trying to be honest and not give away your best mate's secrets. Is this what girls have to go through all the time? Ron's going to be cross with me,' he couldn't help thinking, until Hermione squeezed his hand again.

"Harry, it's okay. I know how Ron feels about me."

"Well, I mean sure you do, we're best friends! Of course you know that! Er, I mean…" Harry felt slightly relieved; she obviously thought he meant their friendship.

"No Harry, I know Ron fancies me."

'Could she read minds? Oh no, Ron was going to blow his top. But how could she read minds? Unless…had Ron actually told her, and then not told Harry about it?' This made Harry a bit angry himself, and he could feel himself glowering.

"Harry, Ron hasn't told me, so calm down. But even you have to know he's a bit obvious about it. The perfume last Christmas? Yuck. I mean, I know he thought he was getting me a girly thing that I would want, so he could impress me or whatever and win me over, but really, does he know me at all? I mean honestly!" She shuddered a little.

"Can you read minds?" Harry blurted out suddenly.

Hermione sighed, and with a patient voice said, "No. Well, maybe yours. But only because I know you so well."

"Oh. Right then. Nevermind. So…if you know, then why…?"

"You mean, why are Ron and I not dating? Harry, do you believe that I fancy Ron?"

He felt her fingers begin to slip away from his, and in a subconscious act, wove his fingers through hers so they couldn't move, the lock of her hair still curled around his right index finger.

"Well, to be, er, perfectly honest, 'Mione, it seems like you do. You argue all the time, and after the Yule Ball incident…You mean you don't, er…like…him?" He breathed a little easier after this, while thinking 'she must like the nickname, she hasn't reprimanded me for it yet.'

"Not like that, Harry, no. For a while I thought I might, but I don't think it could ever work between us. He just doesn't understand me the way he would need to, and I don't think he ever could. And, to be perfectly honest, I'm not what he wants. Not really."

"You could have fooled me. He seems pretty wild about you."

"What Ron really wants, I think, is a fangirl. He wants a girl who will idolize him, who will dote on him, and basically be his groupie. And who knows all the words to 'Weasley is my King', and sings them on a regular basis. But who also has a personality, a certain amount of intelligence, and a bit of mystery. Plus he's partial to blond hair and blue eyes," after revealing this, she sighed a bit.

Harry considered all of this very carefully for a moment, coming to a very strange, but oddly right conclusion. "You mean, you think he really wants Luna?"

"In the end, yes. I didn't know that at first. And he certainly doesn't know it. But given all the things I've observed about our best friend, I really think she embodies everything he actually wants in a woman. But, we'll see if he ever gets it right."

"How do you know you're right 'Mione?"

"Well, I guess I can't be certain, but, well, aren't I usually right about these things? And you have to have noticed she fancies him. She even calls him Ronald reverently. Or at least, what I assume passes for reverently from Luna."

He thought she sounded a bit smug, but was unfortunately right. "That is true. All right then, who DO you fancy?"

"Of all the things I thought we might talk about, I didn't think it would be this." She shook her head some. "Who says I fancy anyone?"

"Well, we're 16 years old, you're almost 17, and usually people around this age are always pairing off…" It suddenly occurred to Harry that they had never discussed Hermione's affections. She seemed to know all about his feelings for Cho while he still had them, and they had talked about his romantic life before, but never hers. He was intrigued. "Is it Viktor? I know you and he still write to each other."

"I don't fancy anyone Harry," she said quietly. "Certainly not Viktor, much to his disappointment. Don't get me wrong, I like him very much, but I'm not the right girl for him, either."

"There must be someone Mione! Don't tell me you don't feel you're right for anyone, and that is what's keeping you from falling for them," he spoke, rather than asked, half expecting this to be the reason.

"No, that's not it. I just…don't fancy them." She shifted next to him.

Her apparent discomfort and desire to change the subject made Harry believe she was lying to him. "Bollocks, I can tell you do. Now who are they?"

"Harry, even if I do, for right now, is it okay if I don't tell you? I'm not that comfortable with it myself, and I'd rather work it out before I confess to anyone. Even you."

"Oh. Sure. I guess." He was starting to feel a bit left out.

"Believe me Harry, as of right now, you know me better than anyone else in the world. You know more about me than anyone. There's no need to feel left out. When I decide to tell him about my feelings, you'll be the first to know."

"So you CAN read my mind. Well, so long as it's not Malfoy, then I think I can live with that," he acquiesced.

"You can live safely with the knowledge that I am not, nor will I ever be, in love with that twitchy ferret Malfoy."

Harry smiled and replied in a rather self-satisfied manner, "Okay then."

They remained silent for a tense moment. "So who do you fancy then, Harry?" Hermione asked.

Harry had been expecting the question, but didn't know how to answer. Soon his mouth was taking over and thought had fled.

"I don't fancy anyone 'Mione."

"Oh sure, I have to fancy some one, because that's what everyone's doing nowadays, but you don't?" She was taking on the Professor McGonagal tone.

"No Hermione, I just…I liked Cho, and we all saw how well that turned out. I just got over that a little while ago. And, I'm not only a failure with the fairer sex, but I'm also a magnet for death and disaster."

He heard her snort. "Sure Harry. Only as much as the rest of us. We've all brought on our fair share of catastrophe. That shouldn't discourage you from finding a girlfriend. I mean, Cho was not the one, obviously. But I'm sure she's out there."

"What do you mean she 'obviously' wasn't the one?" He shouted.

"Cho had a lot of baggage, and she clearly went into the relationship with ulterior motives, and then got confused and scared when she actually cared for you. Then, you started having reservations, you botched Valentine's Day, everything that happened with Marietta, it was all too much for a relationship to handle, and Cho certainly wasn't stable enough to handle it. That's not your fault though, when you fell for her, she was perfectly fine."

"Oh, great. Well, as of right now, if they're not out to share my fame, they think I'm crazy. Plus, thanks to this ruddy scar, even if I managed to find a decent girl, she'd be used against me or wind up with 'baggage'. She would probably wind up dead, or worse, tortured into insanity. How can I invite yet another person I care about into that?"

"Oh honestly Harry!" Hermione yelled, sitting up and swinging her legs around so she was facing him, their hands still clutched, though his finger slightly cold where her hair was no longer curled.

She pulled their clasped hands up, his upper body with them, and unwinding her fingers from his, placed his left hand gently against the upper part of her chest, where a few buttons on her loose button-up shirt were undone, her own two hands holding his in place. It felt warm, warmer than it should have been, and the faint traces of the bumps of a scar were uneven under his palm.

Looking into his eyes, their foreheads nearly touching, faces inches apart, she begged, "Do you feel this, Harry? You're not the only one with a scar anymore! Do you know that Ron still has nightmares from the brains? There are still red welts on his arms where they attached themselves to him, trying to feed from his mind. And me? I've got this stupid, horrible scar that may never go away. Madame Pomfrey said the heat should have gone away by now, but it hasn't, and if it doesn't soon, it may never! So you're not alone anymore!" Her chest rose and fell rapidly now under his palms, from her shouting. "And you know what else? We could really use you right now. You're the only one who has ever dealt with anything like this, and you're holed up in here when we need you the most."

He was truly angry now, hadn't the world demanded enough from him? "That's just it Hermione! I can't take it! Everyone just keeps taking from me, when can I get something back? Everything and everyone I need just keeps getting taken from me. I can't do it anymore. I won't!"

There was a wild look in her eyes now, her voice a little shrill. "So you'll leave the people you love desperate and alone, searching for answers, searching for anything that will relieve that fear when you know you can help?"

"I'll do what I have to do, when the time comes, and then I won't owe anyone anything." His voice dropped dangerously low.

"That's a nice, neat little package for you. Don't forget to lack a life while you're at it. You think life will be any easier for you if you just alienate everyone? Too late. We're already marked. We probably would be anyway because of who we are. Like I said, you're not alone. Our identities make us stand out as much as your does to these people." She sniffled slightly.

"At least they haven't been after you since birth! At least you don't have to be the saviour of the world, and probably die in the process! I just want the quiet." Tears threatened the corners of his eyes, but the rage would not leave him.

"Good luck finding it," she growled. "It's nice to know that I would do anything you needed me to, and in return you wouldn't do anything. If it came down to it, you would leave us to hang. You selfish bastard. Because I do need you Harry. Just you. Not the boy who lived, the Tri-Wizard Champion, or the nutter who just wants a bit more fame, but my best friend. My Harry. I need you, more than anything, to just be you and me. Because without you, I don't know how to be. Please Harry, I need you."

Tears traced down her cheeks, and something inside Harry broke. Without knowing what was happening, he found his lips on Hermione's. It was something he wasn't sure either expected, but knew instinctively was what they both needed. And from the feel of her lips pressing back against his, he knew she knew it too. But that was Hermione. She always knew what he needed before he did, and was always there to accommodate. She understood, much more than he had given her credit for, and was right there to make him wake up and break out of his despair, if only for a short time. His right hand came up, cupping her face and tangling in her infernal mess of hair, the suddenly glorious curls threading through his fingers. 'Somehow, things might turn out okay,' he thought. 'If this is the one thing I can hold onto, through everything, it may turn out okay…'

* * *

A short time later, they emerged from the room together, hands clasped. Harry and Hermione would face this, together. There had been no more words spoken, but they hadn't needed any. They headed downstairs to greet their friends, and there were smiles all around to see Harry had emerged from his self-imprisonment to live the life that had been re-granted to him.

For the rest of that summer, they hardly separated, and were rarely without the company of Ron. Neville and Luna had been brought to headquarters as well, since they too, were now marked for having defied the Deatheaters. As such, along with Ginny the six had become silently joined at the hip during the daylight hours, splitting off to their own activities at night, but always connected by a mutual understanding that few others could share.

When the time came to head back to Hogwarts, they had developed a comfortable group dynamic. Ron had come to accept Harry and Hermione's sudden union, as had their other friends. It was if everyone had seen it all along. After the new term had started, the trio found themselves in the library one afternoon, quietly working on a Potions essay. Hermione had gotten up to go find another reference and Ron finally threw down his quill and stood up loudly. Madam Pince shushed him as he exclaimed, "I don't know how you do it mate."

"Do what Ron?" Harry asked, bemused.

"Just sit here in the dark, dusty, silent library all afternoon, when we could be outside in the beautiful sunshine, having fun!" Ron said, looking out the window and spying Luna heading towards a tree with a Chess Set in hand. "I think I'm done for the day. The call of the outdoors is too strong; the thrill of a game is too great, there is a beautiful…scenery…out there, and you and Hermione should get out of here too."

Harry peered out the window, and seeing what Ron had his eye on as Luna set up her chess board, smiled a little. Hermione rounded a bookshelf, a thick tome in hand, the sunlight streaming through the windows just haloing her curls, with a faint smile of accomplishment on her face, and his own smile grew. She was right once again, as if there was any doubt.

Harry nodded to his best friend and said, "You never know, we may come out and join you yet. But as for me? I like the quiet."


End file.
